


Things you said

by SmilinStar



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6647731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major sighs, deep and heavy, before bursting out with “It’s just the googly eyes, man! The both of you are as bad as each other with the googly eyes and <i>it’s uncomfortable</i>, alright?”</p><p>(A collection of Ravi/Liv fics and drabbles for the "Things you said . . ." writing prompts that were floating around on Tumblr a few weeks ago.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. at 1am

 

\-----

 

 

He wakes with a start, heart pounding in his chest, every hair raised on end and a burning desire to snap upright and run.

 

But of course, Ravi does no such thing.

 

He isn’t an idiot.

 

Faced with an unknown, possibly extremely dangerous intruder, the surest way to ensure your own demise was to alert them to your presence by running out into the open, arms raised, screaming at the top of your lungs.

 

To reiterate: he is _not_ an idiot.

 

There were a lot things Ravi still wanted from this life. And they were (in no particular order):

 

1) Crack the secret to his mother’s to-die-for chicken tandoori, because for some reason, unlike other Indian mothers, Mrs Chakrabarti had no burning desire to pass down her culinary legacy to her children. He thinks it probably explains his own ‘no sharing’ policy. Of anything. Ever.

2) To see West Ham top the Premier League and for Chelsea to fall into the shameful depths of relegation hell – preferably in the same season.

3) To finally finish that paper on the discovery of a new viral pathogen (yes, _that one_ ) and submit to The American Journal of Pathology, and then naturally go on to win the Nobel Peace prize for simultaneously figuring out it’s cure and preventing World War Z aka the real life Zombie Apocalypse. (Ha! Take that Oxford University Medical Admissions Team!)

4) And then finally (so okay maybe this thing did have an order . . . ) land himself a nice girlfriend, who actually finds his extreme nerdiness sexy, instead of the mortifying _aw shucks, isn’t he adorable?_ which surprisingly he seems to get a lot of . . .

  


The point is – nowhere on that list does dying alone in a morgue in the middle of the night in a gruesome and horrifying way make a showing.

 

And so he sits up slowly, takes the time to carefully swing his lanky, too long legs that had been hanging over the armrest around, and plant them gently onto the floor of the break room. He calms his breathing and tries to figure out his next move.

 

In the midst of him doing that, there’s another crash of metal. It’s louder than the first and the sound of previously sterile surgical equipment clattering to the ground vibrates through him and he can’t help but wince.

 

Whoever it was that had broken into the morgue at 1am was clearly a klutz and had no respect for the dead. Oh, and made a _terrible_ burglar.

 

“Whoops!”

 

And just like that, his heart rate levels out and he blows out a breath of relief.

 

He recognises that voice.

 

And when she follows it up with an “Oh damn!” as a glass beaker shatters to the floor, it’s only further confirmation of just who was currently out there desecrating his workplace.

 

And it wasn’t a burglar. Unless of course she’d found herself an alternate dinner since he last saw her.

 

He stumbles to his feet, and steps out of hiding.

 

“What the hell is going on Liv?”

 

She shrieks, drops another piece of equipment ( _was that the bone saw?!_ ) to the floor and looks up at him wide-eyed.

 

In the darkness, her paleness stands out all the more. She’s as bright and as white as the moon in the night sky . . . and he thinks it must be the sleep deprivation that has him spouting shitty poetry in his head.

 

He walks over to the light switch and flicks it on, rubs his bleary eyes and stares back at her, waiting for some sort of explanation.

 

None is forthcoming.

 

“Liv?”

 

She bites down on her lower lip, shrugs apologetically, “I was hungry.”

 

“Riiight, and there was nothing in your fridge worthy of a midnight snack, so you just had to break your way into the hospital morgue? _Wow_. A) How hungry are you? And B) Do I need to be worried?”

 

“Relax, Ravi, you’re safe. I’m not gonna go full-on zombie mode and crack your skull open. I’m not _that_ hungry.”

 

“Good to know, not that that was what I was worried about.”

 

He’s alluding of course to the current brain of the week swimming in her digestive tract. It belonged to one Ryan Wilcox, a manic depressive who literally ate away his feelings. He wonders if she’s spiralling, and prays she isn’t. He’s not sure he’s awake enough yet to talk her down off a ledge.

 

The flippant edge to her smile softens, “I’m fine. In fact, I think most of Wilcox’s brain is out of my system now.”

 

Now he’s confused, “So what are you doing here?”

 

“I could ask you the same.”

 

He watches as she crouches down to pick up the bone saw and the rest of the mess she’s made. She moves around the lab effortlessly, sweeps away the broken glass and there’s not a single misstep. Clumsy Olivia Moore doesn’t make another appearance.

 

He folds his arms across his chest, and stares at the back of her head, “You made that racket on purpose!”

 

She turns her head over her shoulder, looks back at him and smirks, “Yep.”

 

And then he realises what this whole thing’s been about. “Did you come here to check up on me?”

 

“Come on Ravi, you’ve been sleeping here for the past four nights in a row, and I know it’s not cos the sofa in the break room is comfier than a real bed.”

 

She is right about that, he concedes, as his hand reaches up to absent-mindedly rub at the sore muscles of his neck.

 

He moves forward, stops when he reaches the bench she’s standing behind and gives her his best _“I’m fine, don’t worry about me”_ smile. “I’m touched Liv, truly. But the honest truth is, I just fell asleep, working late-”

 

“Four nights in a row,” she interrupts, raising a brow.

 

“Four nights in a row,” he repeats with an empathic nod, “Yep.”

 

She sighs, stares up at him with big, searching eyes and he can’t help but shift uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze.

 

She breaks the moment herself, lips turning into a smile as she shakes her head, something clearly running through her mind.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Nothing,” she shrugs, “It’s just . . .”

 

She shakes her head again, and now Ravi needs to know what has her smiling like she is, “Liv?”

 

“It’s just,” she starts again, eyes holding his, “I love her I do. But Peyton is an idiot for letting you go.”

 

Now, logically, he knows they’re friends. Really good friends. And as his friend, of course, she would say that. She would _have_ to say that, but then. _But then_ the little flip in his stomach, which felt something more like an embarrassing flutter, thinks she possibly means something else but then _nah_. It’s Liv. And she’s still on some random guy’s brains. And it is still one in the morning, and no one ever means what they say at one in the morning and . . .

 

“Ravi? Ravi!”

 

“Huh? What? Sorry.”

 

“You spaced out there. You okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I think sleeping here isn’t really doing me any favours, I really should start looking for a new place.”

 

“I could help.”

 

“No, you’ve got enough on your plate, you don’t need to do that.”

 

“No I don’t, but I reckon it could be fun.”

 

“You have a weird concept of fun. There is nothing less fun and infuriating than apartment hunting.”

 

She has that smile again on her face as she says, “Ah but it’s the company you keep when you do that makes the difference. Sooooo . . . what do you say?”

 

“Really?” he asks, waves a finger from him to her and back again, “Don’t you think we spend enough time together? I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

 

There’s an odd glint in her eyes as she looks up at him, and he holds his breath, waiting for the punchline.

 

But it never comes.

 

She just shrugs her shoulder, moves around him and heads for the computer. He watches her go, scratching at his beard, confused, unsettled and unable to pinpoint _why_.

 

“What are you doing now?” he asks the back of her head as she settles into the chair.

 

“Researching. Come on, let’s see what we can find.”

 

“Liv, it’s still one in the morning.”

 

She lifts a brow, gives him a pointed look, as if to say _“And?”_

 

He gives it a second, scrunches up his nose and nods, “Fair point.”

 

They end up spending two hours actually looking for apartments, which would have been impressive had it not been for the fact they spend most of that time competing to see who could come up with the gruesomest back story for every one of those places that were up for rent, and describing (in vivid detail) the grisly fate of each of their owners. Somewhere along the way they get bored, and forget what the whole point of the exercise is. Naturally, boredom ends with Liv getting sucked into an endless stream of _Buzzfeed_ quizzes, while Ravi sits there rolling his eyes and snorting at their stupidity, inaccuracy and indignantly squalling _“_ _I am not a Huffleclaw! I’m a bloody Slytherdor!”_

 

When Clive finds them the following morning, it’s with Ravi, face pressed down into the keyboard snoring, and Liv, drooling onto the sleeve of his sweater.

 

He snaps a photo on his phone for later use and takes far more pleasure than strictly necessary in startling them awake with the whir of the electric bone saw.

 

Later, in hindsight, he’ll reminisce – startling a zombie awake?

 

_Never a good idea._

 

_\-----_

 

 


	2. while we were driving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravi rolls his eyes, looks down at her, “Says who? The President of the United States of America?” “Says ninety percent of the rest of the world.”

 

\-----

 

 

“This is so weird. SO. WEIRD.”

 

Ravi doesn’t so much as blink at the exclamation, both hands on the steering wheel as he watches the road ahead.

 

“I just don’t get it,” Liv continues, “Why would you drive on the left? It makes no sense. And god! Every time, you turn a corner I feel like we’re gonna get hit by an oncoming car and we’re gonna get squished like blueberry pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, and skewered like minted lamb shish-kebabs-”

 

Her stomach rumbles then, and though he tries not to laugh, his efforts are futile.

 

“Something on your mind?”

 

She huffs, “Clearly.”

 

To be fair, she had just snacked on the brain of a highly strung, ambitious, but exceptionally talented sous-chef, Antoine Dubois, who happened to have been brutally murdered. And their lead suspect? All clues thus far lead to the murderer possibly being a fellow competitor for the vacant spot left behind by the recently deceased Head chef of a two star Michelin restaurant. When he said deceased, he obviously meant carved and grilled like beef steaks. They were looking at a double homicide and of course Clive _just so happened_ to have friends at Scotland Yard, and _naturally_ mentioned two of his buddies who had nothing better to do on this holiday of theirs than help out on a case. Because, _of course_ , the Metropolitan Police didn’t have their own M.E.s to call on . . .

 

To Ravi’s grumbling, Clive had only responded with, “Well your girl’s gotta eat, doesn’t she? Say hi to Elizabeth for me, won’t you?”

 

“That’s Her Majesty, The Queen, to you.”

 

He’d hung up the phone then, with another chuckle and a highly suggestive “ _Have fun!_ ”

 

Which brings him back to Liv, sitting there in the passenger seat, looking for all the world like she was dying of hunger, and this spot of sight-seeing through Central London was the complete opposite of _fun_.

 

And so he goes back to the matter at hand, and does his best to distract. “Anyway, like your way is the right way!” he scoffs.

 

She shifts in her seat, the seatbelt digging into the exposed skin of her neck. “Yeah,” she drawls out, turned towards him, “It is literally the _right_ way!”

 

Ravi rolls his eyes, looks down at her, “Says who? The President of the United States of America?”

 

“Says ninety percent of the rest of the world.”

 

“Actually,” he says as he rolls them to a stop at the traffic lights, “Ninety percent of the world’s total road distance carries traffic on the right but only sixty-five percent of the world’s population live in countries that drive on the right.”

 

“So . . . what you’re saying is . . . we still win. We’re _right_ , you’re wrong.”

 

“No,” he blusters, “No, that’s not . . . damn. Okay, well, how about this, the keep left rule dates back to Ancient Greece. Do you really want to argue with Alexander the Great?”

 

Liv laughs, shaking her head, and the smile on his own face is instant and effortless.

 

She reaches out then, grabs hold of his hand resting over the gear stick, and squeezes. Her laughter dies down to a soft smile. “Thank you.”

 

“For what?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

 

“For trying to distract me.”

 

He slides his own fingers through hers, lifts their entwined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand.

 

He knows what she really means, and it was never about her grumbling stomach and demanding taste buds. It never had been.

 

“Liv?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Relax, you have nothing to worry about. Mum’ll love you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really, just uh try not to critique her chicken Madras. She’s particularly proud of that one.”

 

She laughs again, and the bright smile returns just as the lights change and his foot lifts off the clutch, “Monsieur Dubois will be on his best behaviour. I promise.”

 

 

\-----

 

 


	3. after it was over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But it worked!” she cuts him off, taking two steps forward, meeting him half way. “Look,” she implores, lifting her hands, gesturing to herself, “It worked.” He takes another step, and now he’s right there, towering over her, “And what if it hadn’t Liv? What then?”

 

\-----

 

 

“So how do you feel?”

 

It’s a question Liv’s heard several times already. And her answer is always the same.

 

“I feel fine.”

 

And it’s true. She does feel _fine_.

 

There are no immediate side effects. Her memory is thankfully in tact, and most importantly, the insatiable urge to chew on sriracha covered grey matter is gone. Poof. Like it hadn’t even been her constant companion for the last three years and the very idea of it now has her stomach churning in disgust.

 

Her skin is no longer the sick, ghostly white of the undead and she reminds herself that she still needs to throw out what’s left of her liquid foundation and go up two shades, at least. Her hair has turned back to it’s natural state, a golden blonde, but with one distinct difference. There’s an errant curl of white hair that remains. She thinks maybe it’ll darken on it’s own eventually, or maybe it won’t. Whichever it may be, she isn’t sure she’d do a thing to change it.

 

It’s a reminder. A memento.

 

Of everything that’s happened. Everything that has changed. For better or worse.

 

Because, yes, the virus is gone, and she’s more than happy that it has. But then without it, and she knows its a sickly, clichéd sentiment, she wouldn’t be the Liv Moore she is now.

 

And she likes who she is now.

 

And she thinks a lot of that is down to every personality that has fired through her synapses from boat party till now. She thinks every single one of those people have left behind an imprint, embedded in every torturous sulcus of her brain.

 

But then it isn’t just _them._

 

It has just as much to do with the people that came into her life because of it – the living, breathing, _brains still in their rightful cavity, safely hidden away in their craniums_ _–_ kind of people.

 

People like Clive and people like _Ravi_.

 

It’s funny how every one of them have asked her _the question_ – Clive, Major, Peyton, _even Blaine_. The only one who hasn’t yet is the very architect of her current, Z-virus free state.

 

She supposes it’s finally his turn then, as the words slip out of his mouth.

 

Her responding answer is textbook.

 

“ _I’m fine.”_

 

He doesn’t turn to look at her, just nods his head and replies with a flat, “That’s great. I’m glad.”

 

Except everything about him screams the opposite. He won’t look at her for more than two seconds, he’s pottering about the morgue as if he’s snowed under with work, and she knows for a fact it isn’t true.

 

She hasn’t seen him once in the past forty-eight hours. Not once since she drove that syringe into her arm, fell into an unconscious heap on her bedroom floor, only to wake hours later with Ravi’s petrified face hovering over hers. His hands had been cradling her head, fingers tangled in her hair and the expression on his face still haunts her.

 

“Ravi . . .”

 

“Take the rest of the day off, I’ve got it covered.”

 

She tries not to let the dismissal hurt. But it does.

 

She doesn’t get it. He should be jumping for joy.

 

It had worked. He’d _cured_ her.

 

She takes a deep breath in, “Look, I get why you’re mad, and-”

 

He scoffs, and it’s the most unRavi-like thing she’s heard, “Do you?”

 

“Yeah, I think I do . . .”

 

He turns to face her then, splays his hands out, expression hard and not a sparkle of that joy and wonder she thinks must physically run through his veins anywhere to be seen. His lifeblood. Hers.

 

“Well, go on then. Enlighten me.”

 

“I . . . I’m . . .” she sighs, shakes her head, “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have stole the vial, I should have told you what I was doing, but _come on Ravi!_ You were never gonna let me test the cure. Every single time, you’d make up some excuse to say it wasn’t ready, that it was too dangerous-”

 

“With good reason!” he bursts forward, towards her, “I hadn’t completed all the safety tests, I still haven’t even finished my investigations into it’s long term efficacy or side effects! And Liv, you were there! You had a front row seat to my every disastrous attempt that came before-”

 

“But it worked!” she cuts him off, taking two steps forward, meeting him half way. “Look,” she implores, lifting her hands, gesturing to herself, “It worked.”

 

He takes another step, and now he’s right there, towering over her, “And what if it hadn’t Liv? What then?”

 

She opens her mouth, but never answers him. The words are there on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t need to say them for them to ring loud and clear around the room and vibrate between them.

 

“If anything, _anything . . .”_ and the way his voice cracks ever so slightly at the word has her heart seizing up in her chest as if he’s got a hold of it himself, “were to have happened to you-”

 

Liv reaches out, grabs hold of his wrist, bare skin where his shirtsleeves are rolled up loosely over his elbows, “It didn’t, and I’m okay. _I’m okay.”_

 

She brushes her thumb over the hairs of his forearm, back and forth, and watches as the anger slowly begins to seep away.

 

“And look,” she starts, taking one last step, so that there’s hardly anything between them, “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I put you through that. But I’m not sorry for taking it-”

 

He shakes his head, starts to look away but then she’s tugging on his arm and forcing him to look down and face her, “And _if_ something had happened, were to happen, that is _on me_. Not you. But Ravi? Nothing, _nothing_ , is going to happen to me, I promise. I’m okay. _You cured me_.”

 

She can see the battle warring in him. It plays out in the lines and creases of his face. And she can tell when he surrenders, starts to believe. It’s in the deep breath he takes, expanding his chest, before blowing it out softly, and he finally lowers his eyes to meet hers.

 

Because he never could stay mad at her for long.

 

“Your hands are warm,” he says.

 

And just like that, the barricades come down completely.

 

The surprise breaks into a smile, but perhaps it’s more relief than anything else, “The perks of no longer being undead.”

 

“And that?” he asks, his eyes roving upwards. She doesn’t get what he means, not until he’s reaching up and lifting a strand of her hair, running it through his fingers and curling it away behind her ear. “It’s very X-Men. Rogue. I like it.”

 

She blushes. And damn it, but he notices. Teases her with a pointed, “Well that’s new.”

 

She tries to shrug it off; “Another perk. All the embarrassing, involuntary bodily responses that go along with having a heart beating at 60 beats per minute again.”

 

His hand leaves her hair then, fingers trailing down her arm, and she feels every brush and stroke of his fingers. He stops at her wrist, presses against her racing pulse there, “Mmm, more like 120.”

 

She swallows, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

He grins, and she can’t help but think;

 

_There he is_.

 

She closes the distance, reaches up onto her tiptoes and hugs him. Of course, he has to reach down to return it. And really, given her height and his, it should be a whole lot more awkward.

 

But it isn’t.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re really okay? You really feel okay?” he asks, the words half muffled by his lips pressed against her shoulder.

 

She pulls back slightly, meets his gaze as he tilts his head back, and absolutely means it this time;

 

“I feel _fine._ ”

 

And by fine, she means happy, safe, loved.

 

_Alive._

 

For once in her life, she actually feels alive and it has everything to do with _him_.

 

And she’ll tell him that. She will.

 

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

 

It doesn’t really matter when, because he’s given her all the time in the world.

 

And she loves him for it.

 

 

\-----

 

 


	4. that I wasn't meant to hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major sighs, deep and heavy, before bursting out with “It’s just the googly eyes, man! The both of you are as bad as each other with the googly eyes and _it’s uncomfortable_ , alright?”

 

\-----

 

 

Liv would absolutely love to blame this on the brains.

 

A real Chatty Cathy, nose perpetually in other people’s business, type. Miss Caitlin Carlisle, might have had an eye for fashion, and a mouth for cutting remarks and unflinchingly honest opinions – the likes of which ultimately got her stabbed in the jugular with a pair of fabric shears – but her ears? Oh her ears were literally created for the sole purpose of eavesdropping on gossip she had no place knowing.

 

It therefore made complete sense that it was Caitlin’s brains in her stomach that had her hovering on the top stair of the boys’ house like a seasoned pro-sleuth. She even had her weight rolled up evenly onto the tips of her toes to stop the floorboard from creaking traitorously under her feet and alerting them to her presence. For all they knew, she was still peeing out the copious amounts of wine she’d consumed this evening.

 

It had nothing to do with satisfying her own curiosity. Not at all.

 

“What?” she hears Ravi ask, in that entirely innocent, bemused manner of his, “What’s that look for?”

 

“Nothing,” comes Major’s reply, and she can hear the lie in those two syllables.

 

“No, not nothing. I can literally see you bursting at the seams like you’re gonna go all Hulk on me at any moment. If you have something to say mate, spit it out.”

 

Major sighs, deep and heavy, before bursting out with “It’s just the googly eyes, man! The both of you are as bad as each other with the googly eyes and _it’s uncomfortable_ , alright?”

 

_What was he talking about? Googly eyes! She was not giving_ anyone _any googly eyes!_

 

“Googly eyes? Seriously? _Googly eyes_? What are we twelve year old tweens with our first crushes?”

 

“Hey, you said it, not me!”

 

She can practically hear Ravi’s eyes rolling in their sockets as he snaps, “I was not making googly eyes. I have never ever made googly eyes, and wait . . . what do you mean _both_?”

 

The tone of his voice changes with the question, and dare she think it, but there’s a tinge of hopefulness to it that has something swirling in the vicinity of her bradycardic heart.

 

Because something had changed between them, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what that was or when it had started. But somewhere along the way – between rubbing Ravi’s back when things between he and Peyton had inevitably imploded, and then Ravi letting her ruin his shirt with her tears when she and Major finally decided to put each other out of their miseries by calling it quits – he had become the one, sole constant in her life.

 

Whatever it was that she’d heard in his voice, it appears Major had heard it too as he then scoffs loudly, “See, that? That there? Those ridiculously excited and hopeful puppy dog eyes you’re giving me now? You know exactly what I mean by _both_!”

 

“Okay, now I’m confused. Do I have googly eyes? Or do I have puppy eyes. Oh! I know! You mean like in the cartoons, right? With the--”

 

“Ravi! Not the point! Deflect all you like, but you know what I’m talking about!”

 

She expects another denial, another dismissive joke or change in subject, but what she doesn’t expect is the soft sigh of concession, and the apology that comes with it. “I’m sorry, man.”

 

“What, for the googly, puppy eyes? Good. There’s only so much unsubtle pining I can take, before I start feeling like the third wheel here.”

 

“No,” and she thinks Ravi is shaking his head as he says it, “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean _I’m sorry._ I know what Liv means to you, and it’s wrong of me to even go there in my mind, and I tried, believe me, I tried really hard to ignore it. I thought these . . . _feelings_ . . . would just blow over, because it’s ridiculous, right? We’re _friends_ , great friends, and it’s probably some misplaced sense of gratitude for her support and friendship that I’m misinterpreting, reading wrong, but it’s like I just couldn’t help it . . . and there I go again! I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this!”

 

“Hey Ravi, dude, I get it okay. I get it. If there’s anyone who understands falling in love with one Olivia Moore and the futility of fighting it, it’s me. But if you’re not acting on it, and denying yourself something that could be amazing because of me, then please . . . _don’t._ We’re over. We’ve been over for a long time, and you know that. I just want you guys to be happy.”

 

There’s a long pause then.

 

The silence is loud and she thinks she actually stops breathing for those few seconds before Ravi breaks it.

 

“Wait . . . hang on a minute . . . are you giving me _your blessing?_ ”

 

Major laughs, “Shut up.”

 

“No but, seriously?”

 

“Fine, if we’re gonna get old school, misogynistic Neanderthal about it, yes. You have my blessing, and if you break her heart, _prepare to die_.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

She hears the clap of hands coming together in a handshake and the rest of what is said is lost in a low murmur and she doesn’t even care that she can’t hear it, because her mind is still reeling from everything else.

 

There’s some chatter then amongst them about the next movie they’re going to watch, a fight over who’s going to go out and grab more drinks, which Ravi loses, followed by the plastic crack of the Blu-ray casing as Major makes his pick and the front door closes.

 

“You’re okay to come down now Liv,” Major calls out, and she can hear the teasing smirk to the words.

 

If she could flush bright red, she’s sure she would be.

 

“I wasn’t . . . I just . . .” she stammers as she comes down the stairs, and steps into the living room.

 

“Uh huh,” Major nods, standing there arms crossed, “You weren’t what?”

 

She takes a breath in, decides not to even bother trying to deny it.

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

He smiles back, drops his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs, “Yeah, well. Same goes for you Liv. Break his heart, and--”

 

“ _P_ _repare to die?_ ”

 

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

“Except, you know, _I’m already dead.”_

 

“Ha! Funny.”

 

She laughs, resists the urge to hug him and turns instead to the kitchen to grab some more snacks.

 

And when Ravi returns twenty minutes later, and he’s standing there stuttering a “Hi” to her enthusiastic, “Hey there!”, it’s like nothing and _everything_ has changed.

 

And when Major sits there grumbling under his breath;

 

“ _Oh for the love of googly eyes . . .”_

 

They share another glance behind his back and pretend they hadn’t heard a word.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 


End file.
